


All I Want For Christmas Is You

by imaginationtherapy



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Absolute Unadulterated Christmas Fluff, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Established Relationship, Feels, Fluff, Hugs, Kissing, M/M, Post-Season/Series 06, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, hand holding, why is there not a real tag for hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21966622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginationtherapy/pseuds/imaginationtherapy
Summary: Endeavour Morse has had to work late on Christmas Eve, forcing him to cancel his dinner plans. It shouldn't bother him, really. It's not the first time he's been alone for the holidays. It's just that this year, he actually had plans, actually had someone waiting on him.He doesn't realize that someone still is waiting on him.
Relationships: Max DeBryn/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	All I Want For Christmas Is You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iloveyoudie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveyoudie/gifts).



> Hey, look! Pure Fluff! From me! And a one-shot! Great Scott, gadzooks, what could this be?
> 
> I realized that my other Max/Morse story is going to get a little longer, and isn't very Christmas-y. Then this idea popped into my head and I decided it would be a decent Christmas Present to all of you. I had planned to put it up last night, since it occurs on Christmas Eve. Unfortunately, the boys fought me a bit. 
> 
> However, I'm rather delighted with the outcome. Enjoy!

Morse heaved a weary sigh as he shrugged on his coat. It had been a long, weary day, the kind that gave one a low, dull headache behind the eyes. Nothing had been accomplished, not for all the manpower called in, nor Morse’s clever brain. Morse tugged the door shut behind him, with a bit more vehemence than necessary. It was a waste of holiday hours, if you asked him.

The chill winter air tore at Morse’s coat, biting through the thin layers and threatening to tear it completely off. Morse clutched at his lapels, cursing quietly. Really, he shouldn’t be this frustrated. It wasn’t the first Christmas Eve he’d spent alone, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. Morse was used to being alone, used to trudging home on holidays to a cold, dark flat. 

Some distant part of him rather preferred the physical chill of the winter months and his frigid rooms to the intangible chill that had been his home, after...after his mother died. Snowflakes and frosted windows would melt with a little heat and an extra blanket or two. The ice that crept into Morse’s bones--even as a child--under Gwen’s loveless hands never thawed. He could still feel the cold pang of those Christmases deep inside, the feeling of being second best, unwanted, in the way.

Perhaps that was why this Christmas Eve burned. He’d felt useless all day, unable to make head nor tails of the case they were working on. He was desk-bound too, unable to canvass the neighborhood or make inquiries, thanks to a still-healing stab wound. Thursday had snapped at him, Strange had been prickly, and of course Ronnie bloody Box was back, and as insufferable as always. Somewhere deep inside, those old memories that Morse tried to bury were clamouring to come back.

Morse had hoped this year would be different. He had a house this year, a place that was really his, with his records and his wallpaper and his own fireplace. He’d made his way back into Thursday’s good graces, finally felt like he had a place in CID, could stand on his own without anyone making excuses for him. He had hoped all those changes might finally dispel that sense of impermanence that had followed him since his mother’s death, and worsened since Susan. That he might finally feel grounded, like he belonged somewhere.

And of course, this year he had Max. They had finally stopped dancing around each other, shortly after the events at Wickelsham. Morse hadn’t much liked Jago’s thugs taking Max, and Max hadn’t been too keen on Morse risking his own neck to save Max--without probable backup. 

Their relationship--for that’s what it was, Morse was finally able to admit--hadn’t been the smoothest. Max poked and prodded at Morse to eat more, drink less, and for heaven’s sake stop getting hurt. Morse tended to pout when Max nagged at him, and had a bad habit of forgetting to call when he’d been delayed. But somehow, neither one of them had given up on the other. Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months, and they still hadn’t put each other’s backs up enough to stop their pub meetings and long, late nights together. 

That was what was bothering him, Morse mused as he kicked at a mound of snow. For the first time since...well, since Susan, really, Morse had someone waiting for him after work. Morse was to meet Max at his cottage, for dinner and a night in. Max had been quite excited--in his own quiet way--to cook a meal for Morse, and Morse had been looking forward to having Max all to himself, with no corpses or cases to pull them apart. 

Morse wouldn’t admit it to anyone save the snowflakes that melted in his hair, but a deep part of him had been yearning for that dinner. He had wanted--for so long-- to have someone to come home to, someone to wait for him, someone to greet him with a smile. Even if it had just been Max’s cottage welcoming him, warm and bright and homey, it would have been enough. But he was to have none of that now, and while he knew he should be grateful for his own home and his own bed--and that Max hadn’t shouted at him when he’d called--he couldn’t help the pang of longing that bit like a knife into his chest.

Finally, Morse made it to his house. His fingers were white with cold, and the tip of his nose had long since frozen over. With his head down to keep the snow out of his eyes, Morse made it almost to his door before he realized that something was wrong.

There were lights on. In his house. In his kitchen and sitting room. And... _was that his Christmas tree?_ He hadn’t even decorated the thing--he and Max were planning on trimming it tomorrow. But it was _lit_ . Morse froze on his front stoop and simply _stared_. He spun about slowly, verifying that the lane and house number were correct; this was indeed his house.

Morse stared again at his windows. Part of him insisted that he should be careful--someone had clearly broken into his house, without his consent. Another part scoffed--what kind of criminal would turn all of his lights on, and put lights on his-- _hang on_ . Morse lurched to the side, staring with wide eyes at the Christmas tree. He hadn’t even _bought_ lights yet. No, no one who meant him harm would bother to turn all the lights on and actually _buy_ a string of Christmas lights. 

Morse swerved back onto the path to the front door. He stood glaring at the door for a long moment. Whoever had decided to invade his privacy, they probably meant well. God, he hoped it wasn’t Fancy. The kid annoyed him less than he used to, but Morse just wasn’t in the mood to play along with Fancy’s antics. Really, all he wanted was to just collapse into bed and forget the tangled mess that had been today. Maybe if he slept off the melancholy that had settled into his bones, he might be able to redeem himself with Max tomorrow. 

Before Morse could work up the courage to face whatever phantom of holiday cheer was haunting him tonight, his door swung open of its own accord. For a moment, all Morse could do was gape at the figure standing in the doorway, framed in a halo of light like some Christmas angel.

“Max?” Morse finally managed. “ _Max?”_

Max gave him a soft smile. “Good evening, Morse.”

“Max...wh-what are you doing here?”

“It’s Christmas Eve, Morse,” Max replied, as if that explained everything. “Why don’t you come in, instead of standing on your own stoop?”

Max reached out a hand, and Morse allowed himself to be pulled through the door. Warmth enveloped Morse as he crossed the threshold, a warmth that went beyond the crackling fireplace and the tantalizing smells of meat and potatoes and something delightfully sugary. It was a warmth that smelled like faint traces of carbolic soap, felt like warm woolen jumpers, sounded like too-bright Christmas tunes, and looked like _Max._

Max shut the door carefully behind them, before turning to brush snow off of Morse’s shoulders and examine him with a critical eye. “You’re absolutely frigid, Morse,” he chided. “Did you walk the whole way?”

“I didn’t expect it to be quite that wicked out.” Morse allowed Max to push his coat from his shoulders. “Wasn’t as bad when I went in.”

Max raised his eyebrows. “You should know quite well how the weather changes in Oxford.” He hung the coat up before turning back to Morse. His expression softened. “That can’t have done your side any good.”

Morse allowed Max to push his jacked out of the way, allowed those warm hands to tug up his shirt and vest, allowed Max’s practiced fingers to poke and prod at the healing scar. Memories danced around in Morse’s head, memories of the first time those hands had stitched him up, of shared brandy and double anagrams. Then, as now, Morse remembered studying Max, watching the way his eyes took in every detail, the way his hands seemed to soothe and heal with a simple touch. 

It still surprised Morse, that he was actually _allowed_ to watch Max now. That he didn’t have to hide behind sideways glances and quick excuses. He could stand here and just watch Max, openly and honestly. It was more than that, though, Morse mused. Max allowed Morse to _see_ him, without his armour of his bow ties and black bags and gloves and scalpels. Morse was permitted to see Max like this, sleeves rolled up haphazardly, shirt collar unbuttoned, stocking feet shifting restlessly. 

Morse felt the ice in his bones start to melt as he watched Max, watched sharp concern and quick intelligence play across Max’s features. He wasn’t used to this yet, the feeling of being looked after by someone who cared, someone who knew his rough edges and bad habits and wicked impulses. Max knew all those, had watched them fester and break, watched him crumble under his own mistakes, and still he was here. Morse had pushed him away, snapped at him, tried his best to sequester himself in a prison of his own making, and still Max came back.

It might have been the music, or the smell of good food, or the fuzzy feeling of fingers and toes thawing, but Morse found himself moving towards Max without even thinking of it. He hooked a finger under Max’s chin and drew the man up for a kiss. 

Max’s lips were gentle and warm against Morse’s skin. They twitched into a slight smile as Morse sighed and leaned into Max. Max’s hands slid around Morse’s waist slowly, pulling the two of them closer together. Morse curled around him, seeking the heat of Max’s body like a stray cat. He kissed Max with a tenderness he rarely bothered to show. Max brought it out in him somehow, this easy display of affection. Morse’s lips moved with the lightness of a feather across Max’s skin, dropping kisses wherever they could reach.

Finally Max pulled back with a sigh. Morse reached out to catch his hand before he got too far, tangling their fingers together. Max let himself be pulled back towards Morse, his lips flushed and smiling. Morse grinned at him, knowing full well how foolish he looked. It still made him feel like a giddy school boy every time Max responded to him. It still surprised him, that he could take these liberties with Max. That behind closed doors, Max sought him out almost as much as Morse did him. That something in the warm strength of Max’s hands could calm him, smooth out the wrinkles in his soul. 

Max peered up at Morse, his eyes dancing with mischief. For a moment, Morse allowed himself to get lost in Max’s eyes--the way they shimmered in the soft light and the uncharacteristic levity in them. The sudden _scritch_ of the record player as the needle scraped over the end of the record brought Morse back to the present. And the question Max had left unanswered. 

“Max.” Morse rubbed his thumb gently over Max’s knuckles. “What _are_ you doing here?”

“It’s Christmas Eve, Morse.” Max raised his eyebrows in mild reproof.

“So you said.” Morse dipped down to steal another kiss. “But I thought I called, said not to wait for me. And it’s nearly midnight.”

“Morse.” The teasing left Max’s eyes, replaced by something suspiciously solemn and sincere. “Holidays are meant to be spent with others. You oughtn’t to be alone on Christmas Eve, no matter how late you must work.” Max’s lips curved up in a gentle smile. “Especially now.”

Morse tilted his head, studying the doctor. “What’s so special about now?”

Max tugged their joined hands up between the two of them. “This, Morse. Us.” Max’s free hand curved around the edge of Morse’s face, his thumb stroking gently along the line of Morse’s cheek bone. “I didn’t much fancy the thought of you here by yourself. Too likely that you’d end up with only cheap scotch for dinner.”

Morse scoffed halfheartedly. He couldn’t deny that he’d nothing edible in the house. “Still, Max, you shouldn’t have come all this way.”

“Oh, Morse, stop your griping. Would you really rather I not have come?”

Morse took a deep breath, letting his shoulders relax as he exhaled. He leaned his head into Max’s touch and smiled. “No, Max.” 

Morse stared at Max, trying to find the right words to explain what this meant to him, this returning to a house that was so much more than just a _house_ now, with Max in it. He felt lighter, now, not weighed down with ghosts of old Christmases nor the shadow of future dark and lonely winter nights. Max’s gentle hands had soothed the ache in his side, but his presence was like a balm on the bumps and scrapes on Morse’s soul, left from stale cigarette smoke and one too many of Box’s off-colour jokes.

Max curled his fingers into the hair at the nape of Morse’s neck. “I wasn’t too keen on spending the evening by myself either.” His eyes twinkled with a hint of devilry. “Housman and brandy rather lose their appeal when compared with this.” 

The hand at Morse’s neck tugged insistently, drawing Morse down into Max. He went willingly, eagerly. Max kissed him with a gentle hunger, his mouth insistent and demanding, but reverent and tender. He tasted like scotch and cinnamon and _Max_ , and Morse never wanted to let him go. He would be content to stand here all night, safe and warm in Max’s arms, and knowing Max to be safe in his.

Morse felt something release in his chest as Max kissed him. It felt like old, open wounds healing over, leaving just pink scars behind. All those lonely Christmases seemed to melt away like the snowflakes in his hair, each one replaced with the feeling of Max’s hands in Morse’s hair or the feel of Max’s body pressed up against Morse. 

Suddenly it was too much, too much warmth and safety and _peace_. It tugged at Morse, pushed and pulled at him, demanded to be let free. Morse drew back from Max, panting as his lungs reminded him that breathing was, unfortunately, a necessity.

“Max,” Morse whispered. “Max, I...I’m glad you came. I’m glad...thank you for coming.”

Max smiled at him, opened his mouth to reply, but Morse cut him off. He finally knew what he had to say, knew how to put everything that was thrumming through his veins into words, and he knew that if he didn’t say it now, he might never have the courage again.

“Max...Max, I love you.”

The words hung there between them, nearly as tangible as the scent of apple crumble that filled the air. For a moment, Morse was afraid he’d spoken too soon, that the past months hadn’t meant the same to Max as they had to him, that Morse wasn’t _home_ and _safe_ and _peace_ to Max the way Max was to him.

But then Max’s lips were on Morse’s again, softer this time and full of the promise of _later_ and _tomorrow_ and _forever._ Morse barely had time to register that he hadn’t been chastised before Max pulled back just far enough to be able to whisper into the air they shared.

“And I love you, Morse.” Another kiss, short and sweet and everything Morse needed. “Merry Christmas, Morse.”

“Merry Christmas, Max.”

**Author's Note:**

> Good news! Jasminiitee and I were talking, and she helped me figure out why I have such difficulty with our favorite pathologist. I also realized that I've been trying to write him in a particular style, and it didn't fit with the way I write. Half-way through this story, I switched back to my style, and I quite like the result. All this to say: I'm no longer afraid of Max. Yippee!
> 
> Happy holidays to everyone! I love you all and you brighten my day so much. <3


End file.
